Act II
Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace.
Eribert, Constance.
Con. Will you not hear me? Oh! that they who need
Hourly forgiveness—they who do but live
While mercy’s voice, beyond th’ eternal stars,
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus,
In their vain exercise of pageant power,
Hard and relentless! Gentle brother! yet
’Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven,
Whose noblest joy is pardon.
Eri. ’Tis too late.
You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads
With eloquent melody—but they must die.
Con. What!—die!—for words?—for breath which leaves no trace
To sully the pure air wherewith it blends,
And is, being utter’d, gone? Why, ’twere enough
For such a venial fault to be deprived
One little day of man’s free heritage,
Heaven’s warm and sunny light! Oh! if you deem
That evil harbours in their souls, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,
Shall bid stem justice wake.
Eri. I am not one
Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been
Where power sits crown’d and arm’d. And, mark me, sister!
To a distrustful nature it might seem
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead
For these Sicilian rebels. O’er my being
Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note—
I have said, and they must die.
Con. Have you no fear?
Eri. Of what?—that heaven should fall?
Con. No!—But that earth
Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen
Dark eyes bent on you, e’en midst festal throngs,
With such deep hatred settled in their glance,
My heart hath died within me.
Eri. Am I then
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl,
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?
Con. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul,
Which may not speak in words, can find no way
But theirs to liberty! Have not these men
Brave sons or noble brothers?
Eri. Yes! whose name
It rests with me to make a word of fear—
A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men.
Con. But not forgotten! Ah! beware, beware!
—Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one
Of that devoted band, who yet will need
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth,
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek
The spring-time glow is lingering. ’Twas but now
His mother left me, with a timid hope
Just dawning in her breast: and I—I dared
To foster its faint spark. You smile!—Oh! then
He will be saved!
Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think
What a fond fool is Hope! She may be taught
To deem that the great sun will change his course
To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, ’tis strange!
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus
Have mock’d the boy’s sad mother: I have said—
You should not thus have mock’d her!—Now, farewell!
[Exit Eribert.
Con. O brother! hard of heart!—for deeds like these
There must be fearful chastening, if on high
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son
Is thus to perish! Haply the dread tale
May slay her too—for heaven is merciful.
—’Twill be a bitter task!
[Exit Constance.